


Scarred

by apokteino



Series: bone trilogy [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3597123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apokteino/pseuds/apokteino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a bone heals, a scar can remain, altering the bone forever. Castiel is broken, made so by Dean’s sure hand, but he can still be healed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarred

**Author's Note:**

> Contains dubious consent, hence the archive warning.

Castiel kneels at Dean’s feet, much like the dog he’d once derided and since accepted. He no longer feels the shame, something snapped within that once felt pride. He doesn’t pay attention to the words being spoken, though he knows Dean is meeting with other humans that have authority about Castiel and his information. He’s fairly familiar with the human command structure, but it strikes him as irrelevant now. They speak, and Dean replies, but all Castiel hears is the tone, the distinct part of the voice that says Dean. Dean told him he did not have to listen to the conversation, so he does nothing. There’s no command, no physical prompt to act, so Castiel drifts.

Dean isn’t sitting in front of the table, probably so Castiel can be seen, broken, Castiel’s arm curled around Dean’s leg, an anchor. 

Dean’s voice gets heated, louder, and finally, Castiel starts listening.

“ – everything so far has been verified,” Dean argues. 

Someone else speaks.

“I can call it what I want,” Dean says.

More speech.

“Ellen,” Dean says, “he killed five angels who got past our barriers and into the base. You know how many people die to kill one angel?”

Haniel, Theriel, Gazardiel, Meliel, and Leliel. Castiel only dimly saw their surprise, _Dean Dean Dean_ everywhere, louder than the host.

A female voice. 

“And saved several thousand, by your math,” Dean says evenly. 

And Castiel, Dean’s dog. 

Angry words. Castiel pays no attention. It’s not Dean. Dean’s angry, and the thought makes Castiel shiver, but it’s secondary to the knowledge that the anger is not directed at him.

Dean stands, and Castiel rises to his feet automatically. “You know my vote,” Dean says shortly into the silence, then focuses on Castiel. The look is enough. Dean leads and Castiel follows, not seeing with his eyes, just seeing Dean’s soul, shining bright still, familiar as heaven.

When they’re out of the room and some distance away, down a hallway, where wary humans pass Castiel, giving him lots of room, Dean touches Castiel’s cheek. Pleasure floods Castiel, his eyes half-closing to focus on the sensation. The rest of the world remains blurred, indistinct. 

Castiel only sees Dean. Feels it when Dean takes his hand and Castiel follows blindly, thoughtlessly. 

Eventually, Castiel realizes they’re in Dean’s quarters, the one in the prison. Castiel’s only let outside when Dean has a hold on his leash, the one tied to his collar. It’s more decorative than purposeful, not for Dean’s sake, but to make it clear to others that Castiel is broken to Dean’s heel.

Dean sits at a desk, and Castiel kneels there, Dean’s hand temporarily resting on his head.

Then Dean focuses on the desk, on papers. 

It’s not displeasure that makes Dean ignore him, though it takes some time for Castiel to realize this and stop being anxious about it.

Not that Castiel isn’t anxious. A low current of terror thrums through him constantly, along with _Dean Dean Dean_ , the soul he’d once held now holding him. Terror and worship are as familiar to Castiel as flight, paired like two lovers.

Time passes, in fits and starts, little blinks interceding: Dean frowning at the papers, Dean at the door talking to someone, Dean staring down at him. 

Dean takes Castiel’s hand and leads him to the bed, after removing the collar and the chain tying the bracelets together. Dean lies down and Castiel curls up to him. The touch is wonderful, and he stretches his fingers out along Dean’s stomach, watching Dean’s chest rise and fall, strangely rhythmic, soul un-beating within. Dean’s fingers work through Castiel’s hair, and he shudders with pleasure. 

He didn’t understand the touches at first, the power of them. He does now. Dean is the center of the world, and Dean loves him. Dean brings pleasure in place of pain. Castiel loves him, and says so.

Dean’s eyes blink open, and Castiel realizes he was falling asleep. He doesn’t look angry; he looks pleased and perhaps gently disturbed. “I know,” Dean says. “Can you sleep?”

Castiel looks at the bracelets that again restrain his grace. He wants to say yes, but truth is more important. “I don’t think so.”

Dean hums, then says, “Try anyway.”

Castiel closes his eyes, and tries.

\-------------------------

He’s outside, the sun staring back at him.

Dean took him out here, and Castiel dimly recognizes it’s probably a reward. He doesn’t always understand Dean’s rewards, like the bath. But he learns. Dean teaches him. Dean taught him hurt, and Dean taught him pleasure. Castiel was familiar with one, but not the other, feeling himself broken open by the unfamiliar power in Dean’s hands.

“Would you go on missions with me?” Dean asks. “If you could?”

Castiel looks at him. “I would do what you want,” he answers. 

Dean frowns. An unacceptable answer. Fear flares, deep and strong, and Castiel shivers in the heat. Dean shakes his head, then, taking Castiel’s wrist, hand overlying the bracelet, then grasping his hand. “I’m not mad,” Dean says. He says nothing for a long moment, Castiel watchful and still fearful, and asks, “Why didn’t you escape?”

Castiel looks at him. “I love you,” he says. To love is to obey; he thinks maybe Dean doesn’t understand this. Obedience natural, and pleasure so unnatural, married in Castiel somehow. He obeys, and he gets the gentle touches; he disobeys, and he gets the painful ones. 

The world became complex after raising Dean Winchester. It has now returned to simplicity. 

The sun stares back.

\-------------------------

Dean and Sam speak.

Castiel lies on the bed, where Dean told him to stay. They speak at the door, and Castiel doesn’t listen. He examines the folds in the sheets, varied and complex. It’s still warm from Dean’s body, still smells like Dean, comforting. 

Then Dean approaches, saying, “Cas.”

Cas sits up, focused on Dean absolutely. 

“They decided you can be outside of here, as long as you’re with me. You are never to leave my side. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Castiel says promptly. 

“You are not to speak to others. Not for any reason on your part, but you’re an angel and I don’t want others getting the wrong idea.”

“I understand,” Castiel says. His kind is hated, reviled, and Dean doesn’t want him to get in trouble. Humans will be put first by humans. 

“I don’t want you hurt,” Dean says. 

The words induce a strange feeling, but a good one. Dean cares, Dean has always cared, it’s only Castiel that has been bad. “Thank you,” Castiel whispers. 

Dean lies in bed again, pulling Castiel to him. His body is warm and amazing, and Castiel curls into it, where he belongs. It fits, like a puzzle made whole, stronger for it. Dean’s touch is intimacy and pleasure all at once, the stroke along his back where his wings lie invisible making Castiel shudder, irrepressible. 

“Do they hurt?” Dean asks.

“Not anymore,” Castiel says honestly. Dean has not had to punish him in weeks. The amount of pleasure, non-pain, has filled Castiel to a dizzying amount. He’s desperate to keep it.

Castiel knows that Dean likes the return of his touch, and that that touch lights Dean within, searing away the dark that stains. He presses as close to Dean as he can get, touching Dean with his hand, skimming over skin. 

Dean’s hand settles on his, pressing Castiel’s hand down to Dean’s stomach. 

“Why didn’t you escape?” Dean asks again.

His other answer must have been unsatisfactory. Castiel shivers, then says, “I didn’t want to.”

Angels never touch. There is no such thing in heaven, not between angels. Castiel feels his body alight when Dean passes a hand through Castiel’s hair, fingers twisting the strands, tugging lightly. He feels Dean kiss his forehead, a great sign of affection. _Affection_ : human emotion. Sparked to life by Dean’s soul touching him, and it strikes Castiel that was the first right thing he did, touching Dean and being touched in return. The flare of a new world, like suddenly seeing colors.

Surely God meant for this. Though even if He hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter. “I love you,” Castiel repeats. 

“Good,” is Dean’s answer, the word unfurling pleasure in Castiel. “Good,” like Castiel is a dog.

He is.

\-------------------------

He is waiting when Dean wakes. It begins with a shift in Dean’s face, the movement of many muscles beneath skin, following a certain order: first the blinking of the eyes, then a line appearing between his brows, the slightly spastic movement of his limbs as his consciousness reconnects with the physical. He becomes aware of Castiel’s presence three minutes after that, two seconds before his eyes open completely.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice sleep-roughened. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Castiel repeats obediently. 

Dean gets up, uses the bathroom. Castiel sits on the bed, staring down at the restraint bracelets. Dean comes out, arresting Castiel’s attention again, and as he pulls on a shirt, he says, “You said that the angels who broke past our borders were searching for this Anael.”

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. “But that is an educated guess.”

“Do you know of any way we could try contacting her?”

“You would have to use means as if she were any other human,” Castiel says. 

“Are you sure she’d be in Texas?”

“She’d be safe nowhere else,” Castiel says. “The others believed she had remembered herself, and thus escaped detection. Logically, she should be here. She should be twenty-five, most probably born female.” Her grace fell somewhat near here; as far as Castiel knows, Uriel still has it. 

“Without power,” Dean adds, half seeking confirmation.

Castiel nods. “It is lost to her now.” Much as it is to him. He looks down at the bracelets that Dean had lovingly placed again on his wrists. 

There’s something dark in Dean’s face when he looks up.

\-------------------------

Dean takes him outside.

Castiel’s hands are chained to each other again, but there’s no collar, and he makes sure to obey Dean’s order and follow him closely. He sees and hears Dean speak to several people as they walk, and Dean is tense at first, words sharp, before he gradually relaxes. Castiel guesses that his presence is disruptive. But Dean isn’t angry. Not at Castiel. 

Dean has begun to sweat, lightly, and Castiel keeps so close he begins to smell the presence of the sweat. The sense is not offensive; Castiel finds it interesting, focuses on it, the change and what it could mean, the subtle variation in Dean’s emotional landscape as he moves outside, where there’s sky above. He likes being outside, Castiel decides. 

“Are you all right?” Dean asks.

“I am with you.” 

Dean blinks, looking uncertain. “I –“

He doesn’t continue, looking faintly upset. Castiel hopes he is not the cause.

“I will do and be whatever you want,” Castiel insists. 

“I know,” and that answer brings some relief. Dean pauses, avoids Castiel’s eyes for a few seconds, before returning, swift and sure. “Would it be difficult for you to deal with others? Like Sam?”

Castiel hesitates. Truth first. He has never lied to Dean. “I can try,” he says. “I will – I want to please you.”

Dean nods. “Okay. I notice you don’t pay attention to what people are saying. Do you hear them speaking?”

“I don’t know what they say,” Castiel admits. “It is not relevant.”

Dean looks puzzled by this. It’s not a negative reaction, shaded by that darkness from before, like Castiel has reminded Dean of something bad. “So only what I say matters?”

Castiel nods. Of course. 

Letting go of Castiel’s chain, and then running a hand through his hair, Dean exhales shakily. “You’re completely focused on me, you mean.”

“Is that unusual?”

Dean shakes his head. “I guess not, all considering.” He waits a second, then says, “I’m bringing you to my quarters – the ones I share with Sam. I want you to focus when Sam talks, okay?”

Castiel nods, again. “Yes,” he adds, to make sure Dean understands his compliance. 

“And if it ever comes again to something like when those angels broke through, you protect him like you would me, understand?”

“He’s family,” Castiel says. He understands Dean’s motivation here, and is pleased he understands; he can be better for Dean that way. “I understand.”

Dean twitches at this. “You don’t feel ashamed you went against yours?”

“They are wrong,” Castiel says. Dean is right; Dean is the world.

Dean is surprised. “You really believe that? Is that why you cooperated?”

“Not entirely. I cooperated because I belong with you.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I – my beliefs were irrelevant. There is to be only obedience in the mind of an angel. After I rebelled that one time, I was permitted to think what I wanted because I was seen as too tainted to do otherwise, but my actions were always to be strictly controlled.” Castiel considers what to say next. “You are different. I belong with you.”

“Because I’m your entire world, aren’t I?” He makes a dry sound, almost like hacking. “That’s what I intended.”

Castiel considers that. “I reached you first, in the depths of hell,” Castiel says. “Yet I was not the strongest, nor even the quickest. But I found you first, nonetheless, and that is where I began.”

Dean looks down. The darkness again, and finally Castiel realizes what it is: guilt. 

So Castiel presses his lips against Dean’s. He doesn’t know what impulse made him do it, and Dean is still against him, not even breathing. “I’m sorry,” Castiel blurts, and falls to his knees. Dean will tell him to show his wings, and it will hurt.

Dean grabs him by the arm and forcibly raises him. “Stand up,” he snaps.

Castiel obeys, panicking and breathing fast.

Grip tight on Castiel’s wrist, Dean drags him back inside.

Despite his best efforts, Castiel cannot read the expression on Dean’s face. He has no idea what is coming. He doesn’t know why he did what he did, the shape of Dean’s lips imprinted on his mind. He finds himself focusing so intently on understanding this, understanding something beside the look on Dean’s face and what torture is next, that a touch to his shoulder makes him start.

They’re somewhere else. Dean’s quarters, he realizes. 

“Where were you?” Dean asks.

“Here,” Castiel replies, puzzled.

Dean laughs. The sound is sudden and Castiel’s never heard it before. But now Dean’s smiling, so Castiel smiles back, aware he’s pleased Dean in some way and that being enough. 

He pushes Castiel to the bed, smile fading. He’s eyeing Castiel carefully.

This makes Castiel nervous, but he waits, looking up. 

Dean leans in, leans down, and returns the pressing of lips. The kiss. His tongue presses against the seam of Castiel’s lips, and Castiel opens his mouth to it obediently, the sensation of Dean exploring his mouth strange and new. Dean breaks the contact, says, “Kiss me back.”

Feeling uncertain, he mimics Dean, slow, gentle swipes of the tongue, and Dean’s eyes are closed. He opens them to push Castiel so he’s lying down, and Dean crawls over him, expression intent. 

He places one hand on Castiel’s jaw, tilting it up slightly, and kisses him again, careful and slow, a slow pleasure awaking. Then, a bare inch from Castiel, he says, “I want you to say yes, but you’re able to say no.”

Castiel stares at him blankly. 

Dean sighs, breath warm. “Tell me if it doesn’t feel good – or if it does. The truth. You promise?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s hands scramble at the hem of Castiel’s shirt, pushing it up, and Castiel takes it off. Dean gets up, strips, and catching on, Castiel follows. Dean’s breathing fast, like he’s angry, but there’s nothing like anger in his eyes. There’s something else, focused on Castiel and wanting. 

Back on the bed, Dean takes hold of Castiel’s cock, that dangling piece of human flesh Castiel’s never really seen the point of. Sensation the opposite of pain rushes through him, powerful like the touches before but _more_. It flings itself through Castiel’s body like lightning, creating pleasure in every part of his body, oddly and beautifully physical as everything Dean has ever done to him.

Face flushed, moaning briefly then focusing on Castiel, Dean takes one of Castiel’s hands and presses it to his cock, hesitantly, and Castiel grips him lightly.

“Stroke it,” Dean says, voice coming out uneven.

Castiel does, jerkily, overwhelmed with sensation, giving and receiving. Dean moves his hand over him again, and Castiel barely remembers to say, “It feels good, it feels good,” gasping. 

“Good,” praise coming in a low whisper, like a prayer. “Good.”

Castiel realizes he’s stopped touching Dean as Dean had told him, starts again, and Dean pushes into the contact with a groan, uncontrolled like Dean so rarely is. Always so controlled, every touch controlled, but not here, faint, “Fuck, fuck,” falling from Dean’s lips.

He looks wrecked, face flushed and breaths coming out in pants, like Castiel didn’t obey and Dean has had to punish him for hours, but instead there is pleasure and joy in Dean’s eyes, replacing the flatness, the determined line of Dean’s lips as he raises his knife.

There’s no knife here. Dean’s touch is warm and firm, fingers spread over Castiel. Castiel presses his other hand over Dean’s shoulder in return, where the scar is, and Dean twitches. “You did that, huh?” Dean whispers.

He did _this_ , Castiel realizes. He has made Dean come undone, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed, kindness in Dean’s touch in response to Castiel. He has power over _Dean_.

Moving abruptly, Castiel takes hold of Dean’s body and flips them, so Castiel is on top. Dean stops breathing for a full second, surprised, but allows it. Castiel takes hold of his cock again, and moves his hand over it in long, sweeping strokes, Dean shuddering beneath him, allowing it, allowing it, spreading his legs and thrusting upward into Castiel’s hand. It makes Castiel’s cock hard, reaction to the sight of Dean, to the lingering feel of Dean’s hand on Castiel. The thrusts are even at first, then quickly degrade into quick, jabbing motions, then Dean stills and comes.

Semen splatters over Dean’s stomach and Castiel’s hand, and Dean pushes Castiel’s hand away, forcing him to stop stroking. 

Eyes nearly all pupil, Dean pulls Castiel to lay down beside him, and says, “Oh, Cas. Cas. It’s so fucked up but I think I love you.” He kisses him. “You’re so good,” he whispers to Castiel, a dazed half-smile on his face as he leans closer to Castiel.

Castiel feels the pleasure rise, and comes untouched, gasping into Dean’s mouth.

\-------------------------

Dean’s asleep. Dean spends, roughly, about a third of his time sleeping, sometimes less, sometimes more. Castiel is always with him, so he knows. Dean seems to unconsciously want to be close to Castiel, even in this subdued state. They’re both naked. It’s not the first time that’s happened, but the sexual intercourse is new. Castiel can feel the semen on his skin, slightly itchy and flaking off as it dries, but Dean’s sleep is deep and undisturbed.

Castiel likes seeing him this way, calm and close. He likes Dean awake better, though. The focus, the attention, as terrifying as it can be is also full of Dean’s affection, his care for Castiel. Every touch is full of it now, instead of pain. Angels don’t love each other, only God, a God Castiel has never seen or spoken to, but Dean loves him. He said so.

Castiel wonders why he fought this for so long.

There’s no window, but Dean begins to stir when the sun rises anyway. 

The slow glide to consciousness is arresting. Dean’s eyes open, a hazy green in the near darkness, only a flickering candle providing light, the electronic ones turned off. 

“How do you feel?” Dean asks, a rough whisper.

Castiel blinks. This is a new question. “I am well.”

“Did you like that? Last night?”

Castiel nods. “Yes.” Remembering his promise, he adds, “It felt good.”

There’s a short silence as Dean takes that in, giving the words more consideration than Castiel would have expected necessary. Castiel’s feelings are secondary to what Dean wants, after all. Dean knows best, knows the best for Castiel, those long months of torture proved that. Dean wants what is best for Castiel, and that is to obey. 

“You’re beautiful,” Dean tells him. “I like you with me, even though I shouldn’t.”

Castiel wonders if he can ask questions. Sometimes Dean lets him, sometimes he doesn’t.

“Of all – of all of the angels, you didn’t like the war, and you were the one I broke,” Dean says, and he looks sad. “I don’t think you deserved this. You shouldn’t be here.”

Dean doesn’t want him? For some reason, this terrifies Castiel. Out of place, belonging to no one. Lost. “Please don’t leave me,” he whispers, jolting to a sitting position, shoulders curled in. He can beg. Dean’s always let him beg.

Dean rears back, startled. Then he sits up and he lays a hand on the side of Castiel’s face. “I won’t. I just – it’s not your fault.”

Castiel frowns, confused. “But I was bad. I wouldn’t answer your questions and I tried to hurt you.”

“You were loyal to your family. That’s what kept you with them, wasn’t it?”

Does Dean doubt him? “But now I’m loyal to you, like I should be.”

Dean studies him. “You really believe that?”

It’s just the way it is. “Yes.”

“You wouldn’t like being free? Being able to fly? Be honest.”

Castiel hesitates. He must tell the truth, even if Dean doesn’t like it, because Dean says so. “I would like to fly. Having my grace restrained is … uncomfortable.”

“Painful?”

“No,” Castiel says. He knows pain, and the bracelets aren’t. “It’s just uncomfortable. Much like how being constrained to a human body is ordinarily uncomfortable.”

Dean goes from concerned to focused in an instant. “But not now?”

“Not with my grace restrained. The body feels like my own.”

“Trading one for the other, huh?”

Castiel tilts his head, thinking about that. “Yes.”

Moving smoothly, Dean rises to his feet and scratches his stomach, frowning at the dried semen. He looks up at Castiel, and offers his hand. “Time for a shower.”

Castiel takes it. Dean makes the shower water hot, almost burning, though it’s not at all painful for Castiel, he sees Dean’s skin redden slightly. He washes himself, running his hands over his body, then turns to Castiel, working his hands through Castiel’s hair. Castiel shuts his eyes, unable to help himself, leaning into the touch. There’s a quick use of lye soap, which Castiel hesitantly takes and uses to clean Dean’s skin. Dean smiles, and Castiel smiles back. 

Dean lays a hand on the side of Castiel’s face, thumb on his lower lip. He says, “I’m not going to hurt you again. I want you to understand that. You don’t need to fear me, I promise.”

Fearing Dean is natural. Castiel’s not sure he can stop. “But what if I’m bad?”

“I – I don’t think I could torture you again. I’d try to protect you, but I’d have to lock you away, if it became known, and the council would probably vote to execute you.”

“Oh.” This doesn’t sound horrible. Castiel doesn’t mind dying, not when there’s the alternative. Being hurt by Dean would be so much worse. “I won’t be bad. I want to stay with you.”

Dean nods, smiles. “Okay, then.” He steps out of the shower, throws a towel over his shoulder, and walks out into the small bedroom, searching for clothes. He tosses Castiel a shirt and jeans, Dean’s size so they’re a little large, but they smell like Dean, so Castiel likes them. 

Castiel starts to put the jeans on, when Dean throws the towel at his face. “Dry off first,” Dean says. 

Nodding, Castiel obeys.

“We’re going to see Sam,” Dean says. “About how to contact – contact your sister, Anael. She’s your sister, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. “As much as any angel is my sibling.”

“I don’t think we can just spread a random message, can we? She wouldn’t answer.”

“I doubt it,” Castiel says. “And she might be wary of revealing herself to humans.”

Dean’s lips twist, and he sighs. “Wary of being captured and tortured for information.”

“You would need to assure her otherwise.” Castiel is fairly sure Anael will cooperate, if she feels safe. Falling means she holds no love for heaven, even though Castiel doesn’t know the exact reasoning behind the act.

“And we’d need to make sure we have the right person,” Dean says, looking suddenly thoughtful. “People are nuts and claim to be who they aren’t. Is there a way, something we can say, so only she recognizes it?”

Possibly. Anael was Castiel’s superior, but he knew her better than many others. “She would know the message comes from an angel. I don’t know how she would react to that.”

“People we know we have you,” Dean says carefully, watchful, green eyes focused on Castiel. “That you broke – I mean, that you came to our side.”

“Then a message only she would understand would be effective,” Castiel says calmly.

“Good. We’ll do that, then.” 

Castiel swallows, nervous to ask a question. “I will assist you if you wish to make torture your means of getting her cooperation.”

Dean flinches. “That won’t be necessary. You said she’s against heaven, right? Then she’s an ally. Just like you are, now.” 

Dean holds out his hand, and Castiel slips his own into Dean’s grasp.

“Won’t I be chained?” Castiel asks as Dean guides him to the door.

“Not today,” Dean says. “Like I said, when you’re with me, you can go out.”

Dean leads him through a maze of buildings, passing military areas and residential quarters. They’re all in gray, spotty and painted different shades, pops of colors when Castiel sees humans. Dean walks forward with no worry or fear on his face, though Castiel dimly recognize s the silences that follow them. It makes Castiel even more careful to keep close, eyes focused on the back of Dean’s neck, the warmth of his hand, lightly sweating where he holds Castiel tight. 

He brings Castiel to another room, a residential one, and Sam opens the door. 

There’s a haze of words, then Castiel makes himself listen, focus on Sam as well as Dean. Splitting his focus, as he hasn’t done since Dean opened the heavy door that first day, Castiel looking up from where he was cuffed, and Dean becoming his whole world.

“Hello, Castiel,” Sam says. He rubs his hands awkwardly at his sides, then holds out one, expression wary.

“Shake his hand,” Dean murmurs in his ear.

Castiel does. “Hello.”

“Your answers to our questions have helped a lot,” Sam tells him, relaxing slightly. “Our borders are more secure than ever, and we’ve been able to predict some of heaven’s movements.”

Castiel glances at Dean, looking for approval.

“You did well,” Dean says. 

“Oh.” He looks at Sam. “I’m glad.”

“We’ve got an idea about Anael,” Dean says, sitting on Sam’s bed. Castiel automatically sits by his feet. 

Sam blinks at this, frowning, then looks at Dean.

They exchange something, somehow, in that one glance. Castiel can see it, but he doesn’t understand it. Something like uncertainty, recrimination, and forgiveness, in an unfathomable mix. Dean places a hand on Castiel’s head, cards through his hair with his fingers. “You can sit by me, Cas, in here.”

Castiel rises uncertainly, Sam focused on him and not his brother. He sits by Dean, close enough that they touch. 

Dean explains what he and Castiel talked about earlier, about ways to contact Anael and ensure that she’ll actually respond. They know based on the attack that Castiel prevented that she’s somewhere nearby, so they won’t have to extend the message far, just far enough to reach the general vicinity. That makes things easier, according to Dean. They can and do communicate by telegraph with more distant cities, but for here, the easiest way to talk will be through a general bulletin. 

“We don’t want the general population to know there’s a fallen angel in the area. That could start a hunt like the Salem witch trials. If we can get to her first, we can introduce her to the community, make her an ally, not something to be feared,” Sam explains. 

“Kind of like you,” Dean says to Castiel.

Sam shakes his head. “I’m not sure that will ever happen, much as you think Cas here deserves it. He killed almost a thousand being taken, blinded a few hundred more. Anael doesn’t –”

“Have a body count?” Dean interrupts. “I get it, Sam. But killing Castiel doesn’t do us any good. If there really is dissension in heaven, we need those … people … to feel safe coming to us.”

“I don’t disagree, Dean,” Sam says. “I’m just making a point.”

Dean waves a hand. “Taken.”

“So how were you thinking of contacting her?” Sam asks Castiel. 

“A message in our language,” Castiel says.

“I’ve been studying Enochian, and most people recognize it,” Sam points out. “Everyone knows the binding sigils.”

“It is one of the angelic scripts,” Castiel says. “But not the only one. It would be easiest to send a message in one of the others.”

“There’s more than one?” Sam leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. Intellectual interest sparks in his eyes. “How many?”

“Three, including Enochian. One is used by the lesser angels, one is used among humanity – Enochian – and one is used by the archangels.”

“Why the different languages?” Sam asks.

“We are not all the same age,” Castiel says. “Though the difference would be minor to you. We were all created before the earth was. But the archangels are the oldest, and formed their own language. We created another language for use when we communicated here on earth.”

“Why?” Sam’s focused on Castiel’s words, but Dean’s just watching Castiel.

“The other two angelic languages cannot be spoken or written in human terms,” Castiel says. “I would be … half-way translating.”

Sam pulls back, silent.

“I can see you geeking out, Sam,” Dean says.

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother, before looking at Castiel. “Okay. Show me.”

He hands Castiel a piece of paper and a pen, and Castiel begins writing immediately. It’s a mix of Enochian translation of the lower-angel script, English words for abstract concepts, and a few other languages that fit the original meaning better than an English word can. He hands it back to Sam.

“Wow. Looks like a code.” Sam reads it, then reads it again with narrowed eyes.

“It is, in a way.”

“What does it say?” Dean asks.

“Roughly, to come forward and that it is safe. I also wrote her name in it.” He points to a symbol. “The word for grace in one of the scripts, since that is roughly the meaning of the human version of her name, ‘Anna,’ with an ending in Enochian meaning ‘of God’.”

“Oh, I see what you’re doing,” Sam says. “Restructuring her name in human and angelic terms.”

Castiel nods.

“You think the council will accept that even though they can’t read it?” Dean asks.

Sam traces his lower lip with a finger. “I think I can convince them to do it. I’ll look better coming from me, anyway.”

“Okay,” Dean says, getting to his feet. “C’mon, Cas.” 

He heads for a door, not the front door, but the one leading to the bathroom. To Castiel’s surprise, it’s the bathroom, but there’s another door beyond it. “That’s my room,” Dean says, opening it. There’s a bed about the size of the one in the prison quarters, a dresser, and a desk. “You and I will live in that one. If I leave you here, you’re not to leave unless Sam or I get you. Ever. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to leave on a patrol until the evening,” Dean says. “You’ll stay here. You can go into Sam’s room if you need anything. He should be around for a few hours.”

“I understand.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon, okay?” With that, Dean heads to the dresser, opens a drawer and takes out a gun and holster, which he puts on, and then he leaves.

Castiel settles on the floor near the bed. He doesn’t mind waiting, and can dimly hear Sam moving around in the other room. Castiel looks around this room, noting the little things that show how long Dean has lived here. There’s wear patterns on the concrete floor, smoothed out around the bed and going to the door. A corner of some piece of clothing shows above the drawer of the dresser, like Dean shuffled things around and just stuffed them in. In contrast, the desk is conspicuously neat. There are papers there, but Castiel doesn’t touch them. He’s not sure he has permission to, and there’s no reason to take a risk.

He wants to be good.

\-------------------------

There’s the sound of a door opening, then another. Sam comes through the bathroom, holding a book in his hand. He frowns at Castiel for a long moment, then crouches so they’re eye-to-eye. A surge of fear arises in Castiel; he knows how important Sam is to Dean.

“I’m leaving in a bit,” Sam says. He pushes the book into Castiel’s hands, Castiel grasping it uncertainly. It’s old and used, the cover so worn the title is only half-visible. “I thought you might want something to read other than factory request forms,” he adds, gesturing with his chin at the desk.

“I didn’t look,” Castiel says earnestly, worried.

Sam smiles, familiar, an echo of Dean’s. “Don’t worry. There’s nothing there you’re not allowed to see.” 

He claps Castiel on the shoulder lightly, making Castiel start.

“Dean will be back soon,” Sam tells him.

Castiel smiles, heart beat starting to slow. “Thank you.”

\-------------------------

Dean sleeps curled up behind Castiel, one arm over Castiel’s waist. They’re both naked, since Castiel joined Dean for his shower when Dean finally got back, and Dean smiled at him as they got in bed. Castiel spent a few minutes wondering if Dean would initiate the sexual intercourse again, but Dean just dropped off, breathing slow into the back of Castiel’s neck.

Castiel likes it. It’s good; it’s trust. It’s non-pain. 

The seconds tick by, even. 

When the tiniest sliver of light starts coming through the small, rectangular window near the ceiling, Dean starts to stir. He strokes along Castiel’s back, along his shoulder blades where his wings appear, then lower.

“You’re awake, aren’t you?” Dean whispers. 

“Yes.” Castiel still doesn’t sleep. 

A hand slips over Castiel’s waist, to reach between his legs, grasping Castiel’s cock. Castiel starts into the first stroke, surprised. He feels a kiss laid on his back in response. 

“Does it feel good? Tell me.”

“Y-yes.” It does, little shivers of pleasure, a tenseness growing in him, feeling himself start to become hard, steady strokes, twisting lightly at the head.

“Do you want this?”

Castiel freezes for a second, unsure how Dean wants him to answer. “Yes.”

“Why?”

A moment passes while Castiel breathes, and Dean’s hand stills, not letting go. Dean’s trying to determine something, Castiel just doesn’t know what, and that makes him nervous. “It – I like it. It feels good.”

He can feel Dean relax behind him. “I want it to,” he says, starting up the strokes again.

“I like it when you touch me like this,” Castiel says impulsively. There’s care and carefulness in it, every time. Castiel feels like it’s soaking into his skin.

Dean groans behind him, presses his hips into Castiel’s ass, cock hard and riding the cleft, leaving trails of light wetness. Castiel reaches backward, blindly, finds Dean’s hip, and presses his hand over it. Dean’s sweating, lightly. The hand on Castiel’s cock is steady, until Castiel can feel that sensation rising again, that moment right before the pleasure ran out of control, and then Dean stops.

His hand moves to his ass, to that place there, and something vaguely wet pushes in – Dean’s finger pushing in. “Does it hurt?” Dean asks.

“No,” Castiel says, truthful. It’s an odd kind of pressure, a new sensation, but not a bad one, not a painful one.

That finger presses deeper in response, and it moves over _something_ , and Castiel’s entire body jerks, awash with pleasure. He’s moaning, matching Dean’s sounds, Castiel suddenly realizes. 

“Dean-Dean- _Dean_ ,” Castiel says, coming out like one sound. 

“Fuck, I shouldn’t do this without lube,” Dean says into his ear, breathless. “Tell me if it hurts, tell me right away, okay?”

Another finger, stretching. There’s pain, but it’s overridden by pleasure. Castiel decides that doesn’t count. Dean’s fingers leave him, return to Castiel’s front, taking one of Castiel’s hands and pressing it to his own cock. 

“Stroke yourself,” Dean says. 

Castiel obeys, hastily. It’s not as good as Dean’s, but Dean returns to his ass, to that other sensation, and then Dean’s hitching Castiel’s leg up with one hand, and something much larger is pressing into Castiel’s body. Dean’s cock, Castiel realizes. 

“Fuck, Cas,” and Castiel can feel Dean’s balls press against his skin. Dean’s inside of him, as close as two humans can get. As close as two _people_ can get. Dean likes it; Castiel likes it. Castiel is pleasing to Dean, and that is wonderful. “Does it feel good?”

“Don’t stop,” and it’s not what Castiel intended to say, but it’s what comes out. 

It’s like before, when they rubbed off each other, that sinuous movement of the lower body, thrusting, except Castiel’s taking it, rhythm matching, pleasure ratcheting higher with each drag of Dean across that spot inside. A fucking in, a drag out, again and again, faster and faster, and Dean’s gentle touches all over, hands skimming across Castiel’s body, Dean’s stomach meeting Castiel’s back, slick from Dean’s sweat. “Let it go,” Dean whispers into Castiel’s ear, and Castiel does, powerfully, pleasure rushing and taking over everything.

Dean’s doing little, powerful strokes into him, when Castiel comes back to himself, erratic movements. He’s orgasming, letting loose a high sound before he stills. He pants against Castiel’s skin for a minute, then his cock slips out of Castiel.

“Cas.” Dean urges Castiel to turn over, hands over Castiel’s body. Castiel goes with it, turning to face Dean, and Dean kisses him, swift, tongue in Castiel’s mouth, then letting him go. Castiel can make out the color of Dean’s eyes now, the green irises, and the shape of his lips, curved into a smile. Castiel touches that smile, lightly, and Dean’s lips quirk in response. “You okay?”

Castiel nods. He hesitates, then moves in closer, pushes his forehead against Dean’s chest. Dean wraps his arms around him in response, moving slightly to let Castiel lay his head there. Contentedness fills Castiel, overpowering any lingering fear.

A surge of devotion works through him, when Dean just continues to hold him. Dean loves him, and loves him through touching him. Dean’s fingers run through Castiel’s hair, like the other times before, this one of the first touches Dean taught Castiel to enjoy. 

“Why did you do it? Pull me from hell?” Dean’s voice is quiet, contemplative.

Castiel stiffens. “Orders. You were an angel’s vessel.” 

“So you were ordered to heal me?”

“No.” Castiel thinks back. They spent many years searching for Dean, to raise him, but that was the extent of their orders. “That was … an independent act. When I healed you, I used parts of myself, not just my grace. It weakened me permanently.”

Dean stills like this is upsetting, and Castiel doesn’t quite dare to look up. But Dean only asks, “Then why?”

“You needed it. Your soul was – is – beautiful. I wanted to take away the parts that were torn, destroyed, being transmuted.” Castiel places a hand on Dean’s chest, over where his soul lies, still bright. 

Dean gives a broken sigh. “Thank you,” he says softly.

\-------------------------

In the morning, Dean takes Castiel outside of his quarters. He doesn’t chain him, but reminds Castiel to stay close. He leads Castiel into a room, where there are others, all in similar clothing, all with cloth bands on their right arms that mark them as patrol. Patrol, Castiel knows, is vital to keeping the borders intact. It tells them where the angels are, where they intend to strike and weaken barriers, and every once in a while, they set a trap, to capture an angel.

That’s how Castiel was captured.

Dean stands at the front of the room, passes out pieces of paper with maps them on them. He begins listing who goes where, and the altered protocols. Castiel sits at his feet, hands in his lap, watching Dean.

Someone interrupts Dean.

“He’s here for a reason,” is Dean’s answer.

Dean finishes the new protocols. Then he hands Castiel a copy of the map he’d given out to the patrollers. “Is it right?” Dean asks him.

Castiel looks it over, very carefully. Dean is asking him to do something Dean considers very important. He can see it, can hear it in Dean’s tone. The patrols are good, the patterns are random but thorough. There’s only one weak spot, one weak spot that an angelic patrol would spot, anyway. A place near bluffs, sigils there not strengthened in the past few weeks. He points to it. “They would try and shatter the rock with their true voices, weaken the barrier.”

Dean takes the paper back, then looks up. “Did everyone note that?”

A murmur of voices.

“Good. Because I didn’t catch that possibility.”

Someone, a female, asks a question.

“No,” Dean says. “They move in roving patterns of seven. We only see six, because the seventh is a scout who is quick enough to go by without being seen, even with our sigils weakening that ability.”

A voice with a kind of skeptic tone answers Dean.

“Yes, Castiel gave us that information, and _yes_ , it’s proven correct in other patrols. Three patrols actually managed to take out a scout this way, because they weren’t expecting us to be aware of the seventh.”

The rest of the discussion passes without argument. Castiel sees legs walk by, dimly, still focused on Castiel. A few pause before him, but he doesn’t pay attention. Dean will tell him if he needs to act. As the last people leave the room, Dean reaches down to take Castiel’s hand, having him rise to his feet. “You did good,” Dean says matter-of-factly.

Castiel smiles, a calm pleasure arising at Dean’s words.

\-------------------------

Three weeks later, Sam runs into Dean’s room.

Anael came in and announced her identity to a patrol. After the council formally recognizes her as a citizen with all the rights entailed in that, Sam ends up debriefing her. Dean goes about his normal business, but every night he and Sam, Castiel sitting next to Dean as always, Sam discusses the debriefing. It’s massive, because Anael has a considerably higher rank than Castiel does, and her information, even twenty-five years out of date, is more extensive than his. 

For Castiel, it is a glimpse back into the world that is so far away now. Structure, obedience, and war. 

Then there’s Dean’s touches, Dean’s smiles, Dean looking at Castiel. 

“Would you like to see her?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods.

They set her up in the same residential building Dean and Sam live in. It’s a small room, a guard at the door, though so far everyone’s treated Anael well, according to Sam. 

The guard nods at Dean, and moves to the side.

Anael is sitting at the bed when they enter, red hair a curtain over her face, and then she looks up, hazel eyes so totally unlike her true form. “Cas,” she says, and Dean starts at the name. “Cas,” and she runs over to him, and to his surprise, she wraps her arms around him, tight and possessive. “I didn’t know it was you they captured,” she whispers to him. She withdraws, her hands dropping to his wrists, to the bracelets.

He sees her eyes, sees the emotion there as easily visible as any human would have. “I’m okay,” he whispers to her.

“Yes,” Dean jumps in. “He’s with us, and he’s treated well – now.” A sad smile, that darkness there again – the guilt.

Her eyes shift between the two of them, sad and searching, then she nods. “I understand.” Then she says to Castiel, “It’s good to be among family again.”

Castiel shakes with an emotion he can’t name, and embraces her, frail human body against him, nearly as weakened as her. Like this is the only way angels can have any humanity, the power leeched from them, Anael willingly, and Castiel’s journey with more stumbling blocks. He’d thought that there would ever only be Dean, because he’d chosen Dean and that was it, the entirety of Castiel’s new world.

But then there’s Anael, and maybe there’s even Sam, Sam who smiles at Castiel in a way similar to that way that Dean does. Dean is enough by himself, but it’s like Castiel’s included in the span of Dean’s life, now, living in his bed, living in his heart; Dean loves him. 

“Castiel,” Anael says to him, and she holds him in her arms tighter.

\-------------------------

Dean’s asleep.

He thinks of Anna. He thinks of Dean. Dean has never lied to him, and his words since Castiel finally understood his place are new things, twisting things that make Castiel think. Castiel once called himself a dog, and Dean said no.

Dean breathes, steady and even, head lying near Castiel’s shoulder, so he can feel the warm exhale. It’s relaxing, at first, but something within Castiel fills with resolve, and with the resolve comes terror. Castiel is shaking with it, terror like he hasn’t known since Dean asked him where he belonged, and Castiel didn’t have the answer. Dean must be sleeping deeply, because he doesn’t twitch when Castiel opens the door to the hallway. It’s the middle of the night, a few lights on here and there, but most are off to save electricity. Castiel moves from spot of darkness to another. There’s few guards in this section, being residential, and what few there are Castiel eludes.

It’s not like the prison. There’s no angel barriers every fifty feet, just clear space until Castiel is outside. The borders around the outpost have angel barriers, but Castiel doesn’t intend on going that far.

He goes out into the dirt, shaking, can’t stop shaking, and falls to his knees. He takes a second to pray to his father, and then waits. Tears leak from his eyes, and he has to put his hands on the ground, palm flat, so he doesn’t fall. The ground is cold, granules of sand between his fingers shifting as he clutches at it.

His whole body starts at a wild yell. “Cas!”

Castiel turns, and Dean is racing towards him, dressed only in sweatpants. He falls to his knees before Castiel and grabs his shoulders, tight enough to bruise. “What the fuck! What the fuck, Cas? Running off? Were you trying to escape?”

Castiel trembles, and waits.

“Cas!” Dean shakes him. Then he lets him go, standing up and staring down at Castiel, fury in his eyes.

With a shift, Castiel brings his wings out, folded against his back.

Then Dean’s expression breaks, understanding and grief all at once. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Dean whispers. He swallows, throat clicking. Maybe half a minute passes, both of them as still as stone. Dean says, “Now come home.”

Castiel gets to his feet and presses into Dean’s body, arms wrapped around him, and he’s not that much smaller than Dean, but he tucks his head under Dean’s chin anyway. Dean’s warm, so warm. One of Dean’s arms curls around his back, and the other lies on top, stroking the curve of one wing. It’s gentle, and it doesn’t hurt at all. 

“I love you, and I won’t hurt you,” Dean says into Castiel’s hair.

Castiel whimpers, and closes his eyes. 

“I understand,” Dean says. “You had to know.” Dean runs a hand through Castiel’s hair. “Do you know, now?”

“I belong with you,” Castiel says. It’s not quite the words of someone broken. Castiel believed in Dean because Dean took away everything else, all his pride and his shame, cut the fraying rope that connected Castiel to his family, the angels of heaven, so cold and beautiful. 

But Dean has replaced all these things. He has replaced them with love, and affection, and physical contact, and a new family.

Castiel withdraws from Dean’s touch enough to look Dean in the eyes, Dean’s hand to his face, thumb along Castiel’s cheekbone, a familiar beginning. “I love you,” Castiel says, and means it in all the ways he knows.

He looks up, and the stars blink, blurry.


End file.
